Then, as if on cue, Julie heard the first titter from a few feet away, then the next, then fully formed guffaws and a chorus of Holy shit and Dude, that was awesome! A huge crowd had formed. Julie made out the faces of Nyssa and Natalie, who, aside from the film studies girls, seemed like the only people who weren’t laughing. Their eyes bulged as they stared at her, looking concerned but helpless.
A cluster of juniors parted as someone pushed through to the front of the crowd. And then there she was: wearing a Julie-esque wrap dress, her hair in Julie-like ringlets, and with a smug, triumphant, hideous grin. Ashley, the girl who haunted Julie’s nightmares. A handful of girls surrounded her, wearing the same cruel expression. They all giggled nastily.
“Welcome back, Miss Julie,” Ashley crowed. “And here. I thought you might want this.” She sauntered up to Julie and placed something on her head. Julie swatted at it, her fingers touching plastic. It was a litter box. Kids howled with laughter, and she heard the telltale snap of iPhones taking photos.
Julie teared up, wishing she had something to say, some way to shut them all up. But instead all she could do was knock the litter box to the ground, wade out of the Tidy Cats sea, and push through the nearest door to the parking lot.
She ran a few steps, more grains of kitty litter spilling off her clothes. She could tell kids were watching her from the windows, laughing. Once she was far enough away, she let out a wrenching sob. How could she have been so stupid? She had known in her gut that she should never have come back to school today. But she’d let Carson—sweet, clueless Carson—convince her.
Suddenly, something horrible struck her: What if Carson was in on this? He’d been the one to convince her to come back, after all, and he’d abandoned her at her locker.
But before she could think that through, Julie felt someone grip her firmly on the upper arm. “Goddammit—” she barked, shaking off the hand and spinning around, ready to fight whoever had come out here to torment her more. But she was face-to-face with Parker, who looked as angry and vengeful as Julie felt. Parker grabbed Julie and hugged her hard, as though she was holding onto Julie against a storm.
“I can’t believe that bitch did this to you,” Parker snarled. “She’s going down.”
“It’s so horrible,” Julie said, the tears falling freely now. Parker was the only one she ever let see her cry. “All that kitty litter . . . all those kids laughing . . .”
Parker pulled Julie closer as her shoulders racked with sobs. “I’ll do anything for you, Julie,” she whispered into Julie’s ear. “You just say the word, and she’ll pay.”
Julie considered it for a moment, then pulled back. Parker’s face was wild, and for a moment, Julie was suddenly afraid of her. “No,” she said, placing an arm on Parker’s shoulder. “We’re better than that.”
“I know.” Parker took a deep breath. “But I wish we could,” she whispered. “I wish, just once, people would get what’s coming to them.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THAT AFTERNOON, MAC, AVA, AND Caitlin stood shoulder to shoulder on the cracked, weedy sidewalk in front of Julie’s house. Clearly they weren’t the first ones who had visited since Ashley sent out Julie’s address in her email blast: Hoarder was spray-painted across the cracked driveway, and Get Out of Town, Dirty White Trash had been scrawled across the garage door. Skinny, mangy cats wove in and out of the random holiday decorations in the front yard as though they were big scratching posts. Several junked vehicles stood on blocks in the side yard. The grass hadn’t been cut in ages; it was full of dandelions, and probably ticks.
This wasn’t a place Mac ever wanted to visit. But Julie’s Subaru was in the driveway—she was home. And they needed to make sure she was okay.
Mac felt terrible for Julie. Before she’d gotten to know her in film studies, she’d always admired her from afar—Julie was this glowing, friendly, beautiful girl who always wore the perfect clothes and said the perfect thing. It was amazing that the entire time she’d been hanging on by such a thread and concealing such an enormous secret. But Mac understood why she had. This was Beacon, after all, home to kids whose parents were cutthroat CEOs, Nobel laureates, and heirs to Fortune 500 companies. There was no room for imperfection in Beacon, and certainly not for hoarding.
Mac’s phone beeped, and she looked at the screen. What are you up to? Oliver had texted.